“There is a field about a hundred yards away,” I told him. “Just beyond that cottage and small-holding.”
“Flat, is it? And dry?”
“I think so. We can inspect it now,” I suggested.
We walked along the lane towards an old stone cottage with smoke rising from its chimney. Hens clucked in the yard and there was a goat tethered among the apple trees in a small orchard. An elderly woman was sweeping the doorstep with a large stiff brush and Sergeant Bairstow addressed her.
“Excuse me,” he said. “This field? Do you know whose it is?”
“Aye,” she said. “Awd Arthur Craggs. Up yonder,” and she pointed to a farmhouse almost hidden by trees. It overlooked the valley and the Abbey from its elevated site.
“Thanks.”
The field was ideal. There were two wide entrances, one at each end. Each was large enough to permit coaches and cars to turn off the lane as they entered the valley from both directions. It was a large, flat area of grass which had once been two fields, and the surface was solid. We tramped across it, testing the ground with our heels and trying to estimate how many vehicles it would contain.
“Even if it rains,” I said “this surface will be sound enough. They won’t get bogged down — it’s solid enough to take the buses, isn’t it?”
“I reckon it is, Nick. It’s just what we need. But it won’t rain,” chuckled Bairstow. “I have it on good authority! Father Summerson says he’s praying for a fine day. He assures me it will be fine and that there will be no rain and no weather problems. He’s not even thinking of a wet weather programme or an awning for the altar!”
“That’s faith for you!” I said. “But God works in mysterious ways!”
“Then let’s hope he approves of this field as a car park!”
We decided not to take the car up to Arthur Craggs’ farm, but walked up the steep, unmade track and found ourselves in an expansive and rather untidy farmyard. Other than a few bantams pecking for scraps, there was no sign of life, so we went to the house. The door was open so we knocked and shouted, and a woman called, “T’dooer’s oppen.”
We knew it was an invitation and so we stepped in. A farmer and his wife were sitting at a large, scrubbed kitchen table, each with a mug of tea and a huge slice of cake before them.
“Sit down,” she said without waiting for any introductions and went across to the kettle which was boiling on the Aga. Being familiar with the customary hospitality of the local farmers, we settled on chairs at the table, and she produced a mug of hot tea and a massive chunk of fruit cake for each of us. We weren’t given the luxury of plates.
“Is it about me stock register?” said the man.
“No,” said Sergeant Bairstow. “Are you Arthur Craggs?”
“There’s neearbody else of that name lives here,” he said, grinning widely and showing a mouthful of stained and rotten teeth. He would be in his late sixties, I reckoned, a ruddy-faced man with a few days growth of beard around his jowls and chin. His eyes were light grey and clear and he wore rough working clothes, corduroy trousers with leather leggings and hob-nailed boots. We had arrived at ’owance time’, as they called their mid-morning break and even though this couple did not know us, we were expected to share their food. His wife, a plain and simple woman, now settled at the table but did not speak.
“Well,” said Sergeant Bairstow, “this is lovely cake and a welcome cup of tea.”
“Thoo’ll ’ave cum aboot summat else, though?” Those eyes flashed cheekily, playfully even. He knew we wanted some favour from him.
“Yes. You’ll have heard that a service is planned in the Abbey, in August.”
“Aye,” he said, those sharp eyes watching us.
“Well,” said the sergeant, “we are looking for somewhere to park the buses and cars. We understand that the field just this side of the Abbey belongs to you.”
“Aye,” he said, not volunteering anything.
“Well,” said Sergeant Bairstow, “we wondered if you would permit the church authorities to use it as a car and coach-park, just for that one afternoon.”
“And dis thoo think they’d let me graze my cattle and sheep in yon Abbey, then? There’s some nice grass in there. Or mebbe they might let me use yan o’ their choches or chapils as a cattle shed, eh?” and he laughed at his own jokes. “Christians share things, deearn’t they?”
It was clear we were dealing with a difficult and stubborn old character, but Sergeant Bairstow plodded on.
“It would be needed all day, I reckon,” he said. “On 24th August, it’s a few months away yet, but we need to be finalizing our plans . . .”
“Well, Sergeant,” he said, sipping from his mug. “Ah might ’ave sheep in yon field by then, or coos, or even some beeasts Ah might be aiming o’ buying. There again, Ah might decide to put some poultry ’uts in there . . . thoo sees, Sergeant, Ah ‘m a busy farmer and my lands are needed all t’ time, for summat or even for summat else. All’s allus shifting things about . . . nivver stops . . .”
“It would be required only for that one day . . .”
“Yar day’s t’same as onny other in my mind,” he said. “It maks neea difference what day it is. Besides, Sergeant, Ah’s nut a Catholic, and it’s them lot that wants to come, isn’t it?”
“I expect there’ll be pilgrims of all faiths on the day,” Sergeant Bairstow said truthfully.
“Well,” said Craggs, “Ah’s nut gahin to say they can ’ave yon field. It’s a lang while off yit, and Ah just might want to use it mesell.”
And he got up from the table.
With that note of finality, we made a move towards the door, and Sergeant Bairstow added, “Thanks for the lowance. But can we ask you to think about it? For the good of the village, really, to keep all the traffic off the roads?”
“Aye,” said Arthur Craggs, with those eyes twinkling and almost mocking us. “Thoo can ask me ti think aboot it.”
We said nothing to each other until we were clear of his premises, and then Bairstow sighed. “By, Nick, there’s some stubborn old mules around these parts. We need a decision from him — a ‘yes’ decision I might add — before we can go ahead with the planning of this. Do you know him?”
I shook my head. I didn’t. I’d never had cause to visit this farm, and so Sergeant Bairstow decided to ask someone else to make an approach to the farmer. Rather craftily, he discovered that Craggs had married in the Waindale Methodist Chapel and therefore asked the local Methodist minister to plead with Craggs. But this failed too. The cunning old farmer refused to commit himself one way or the other.
His indecision created an enormous problem for the organisers and for us. We began to look at several other alternatives for car and coach parking, all grossly inconvenient but vitally necessary.
And then, in late June, Sergeant Bairstow received a very unexpected telephone call.
“It’s Craggs,” said the voice. “That field. Ah sha’n’t be needing it on t’day of yon service. Thoo can ’ave it, Sergeant. Mak sure t’ gates is shut when you’ve finished wiv it,” and he put down the telephone.
The relief was tremendous, and the arrangements went ahead with a new impetus. And then the big day dawned. It was fine and warm, a beautiful day as Father Summerson had predicted. During the previous week, the church authorities had fulfilled their role; the signs, toilets, first aid, lost children and lost property — everything had been fixed in readiness and the huge empty field bore enormous signs proclaiming it as the ‘Car and Coach-Park’.
Until lunchtime, things went very smoothly. Then, as the time for the commencement of the service approached, the traffic intensified. With an hour to go, the tiny valley and its narrow lanes were congested with slow-moving vehicles, all heading for the car park. Special constables and regular officers were guiding them along and ensuring none parked on the verges or roadside, but the queue grew longer and longer. There was clearly a delay of some kind at the head of the queue.
“Nick,” Sergeant Bairstow had come to investigate the problem. “Pop along and see what the hold-up is.”
When I arrived at the field, I soon discovered the reason. Farmer Craggs had positioned himself at one entrance, and his wife was at the other; each was equipped with a card-table and a money-box and they had erected crude hand-painted notices which said, ‘Parking, Coaches £3; cars 10/-; motorcycles 5/-; pedal cycles 1 shilling’ and they were taking a fortune.
The queues, which extended in both directions from the gates, were the result of motorists and coach drivers pausing while having to pay. I had no idea whether this was part of the deal which had been struck over the use of this field and knew I could not intervene. It was private premises. But the queue was lengthening and the delayed people would interrupt the Mass by their late arrival. I suggested to the passengers in several cars and coaches that they disembark now, before parking, and so they did. Others copied them, and soon we had a steady stream of pilgrims entering the ruins of this hallowed place as the drivers waited to park.
When I returned to the entrance, I found Sergeant Bairstow talking to Father Summerson.
“Well, Nick?”
I explained the cause of the hold-up, and Father Summerson grimaced. “The crafty old character!” he said. “He demanded a fee from us too and now he’s charging the drivers!”
I could see it all; the cunning old farmer had withheld his permission until he knew the church would be willing to pay almost any price to have access to his field. I did not ask what price he had demanded, but then to ask parking fees as well . . .
“It’s all cash too!” said Sergeant Bairstow. “He’ll make a fortune today!”
“But he has saved us a lot of problems,” said Father Summerson generously. “We must not be too harsh about him; after all, it is his field and I’m sure we must have inconvenienced him somewhat.”
And so the day was a success. Craggs’ field did accommodate most of the traffic and, as so often happens on these occasions, most of the vehicles were somehow parked before the service began. I went into the Mass and so did Sergeant Bairstow; it was a moving experience to see those ancient walls filled with people at prayer after so many centuries.
It would be some three weeks later when I saw Farmer Craggs again. He was crossing the market-place in Ashfordly and I hailed him.
“Thanks for helping us out that Sunday,” I said.
“Ah’s done meself a load of harm,” he said, “lettin’ yon field off like that.”
“Harm?” I asked. “What sort of harm?”
“Somebody’s told t’ taxman about it, and now he’s been through my money like a dose o’ salts, checking this, checking that, counting egg money, taty money. Gahin back years, he is . . . Ah shall be worse off than ivver now . . .”
And he skulked away towards the bank.
I never did know who had informed the Inland Revenue about Mr Craggs, but it was not a very Christian thing to do.
Chapter 5
Tenants of life’s middle state
Securely plac’d between the small and great.
WILLIAM COWPER, 1731—1800
While serving the rural community which comprised my beat at Aidensfield, it dawned upon me that Crampton rarely featured in my duty commitments. But I did not neglect the village. I paid regular visits to its telephone kiosk during my patrols and from time to time, performed traffic duty outside the gates of the Manor. Whenever His Lordship and Her Ladyship hosted one of their frequent and glittering social functions, my role was to prevent people in smart clothes and equally smart cars from interrupting the routine of Crampton by indiscriminate parking. A car thoughtlessly parked in a farm gateway can cause untold havoc and delay in a rural timetable. Afterwards, I was usually invited into the servants’ quarters for a meal, an acceptable reward.
It was the ordinary people of Crampton who seldom featured in my work. Apart from the occasional firearms certificate to renew or motoring offender to interview, there was rarely anything of greater moment. No serious crimes were committed; there were no domestic rows or breaches of the peace of any kind. There was no council estate and no pub either; these facts might have been responsible for the happy absence of social problems, but this was not the entire answer. It appeared to me that the inhabitants of this peaceful place lived their quiet lives in an oasis of blissful contentment.
It was almost as if they lived on an island of ancient peace in the midst of a turbulent modern world. Without doubt, Crampton was different from many other villages, including those on my patch and elsewhere, but I could not immediately identify the subtle points of difference. By local standards, it was a medium-sized place of perhaps 300 inhabitants with a Methodist chapel and an Anglican parish church complete with a very scholarly vicar. There was a shop-cum-post office, a village school, several farms and many cottages, while prominent on the outskirts was the Manor.
These factors placed it squarely on the same basis as many local villages, while its pleasant situation overlooking the gentle and meandering River Rye gave it an added scenic dimension. It was a place of remarkable calm and beauty, one which was well off the proverbial beaten track and which therefore avoided the plague of tourism and the subsidiary diseases it left in its wake.
The entire village was constructed of mature local stone which grew more charming with the slow passage of time. The gentle tan shades of the stone; the careless patchwork of red pantile roofs interspaced by the occasional thatched cottage; the tiny well-kept gardens which glowed rich with colourful flowers from spring until autumn and the whispering trees in the surrounding parkland, all combined to provide Crampton with a serenity that was the envy of many. Its way of life echoed of centuries past.
The pace was so unhurried; the inhabitants were shy and retiring and even the schoolchildren went about their business in a quiet, well-ordered fashion. The handful of teenagers who lived in the village never caused me any concern and I often wondered how they spent their free time. They, and everyone else, seemed very content with their lot, but I felt they were not subdued in any way. As time went by, Crampton became an object of some fascination and even curiosity; I wondered what made it so different and why it existed in such a quiet but distinctive way.
The first clue came one Sunday.
It was 10.15 a.m. on a bright, sunny morning in April and I was standing outside the village telephone kiosk, making one of my points. I had hoisted my motorcycle on to its stand and it was leaning at an awkward angle with my crash helmet perched on the fuel tank. Its radio burbled incomprehensively in the peace of Crampton, but none of its messages were for me. This was the quiet scene as I waited in case the duty sergeant came to visit me, or in case someone from the office rang me on this public telephone.
All around, the birds were singing with the joys of spring and the village presented an idyllic picture of rustic calm. Its neat cottages nestled along each side of a trio of short streets; each of those streets clung to rising slopes of the valley as the morning sun glinted from their polished windows and fresh paintwork. Then I heard the sound of an expensive car engine.
Instinctively glancing in the direction of the noise, I saw a vintage Rolls-Royce emerge from the gates of Crampton Manor. It crawled sedately along the gravel road with uniformed chauffeur at the wheel, and I could see His Lordship and Her Ladyship in the rear seat. They were on their way to church. The splendid car, with every part shining after years of devoted care and constant polishing, cruised into the first street and stopped. The immaculately dressed Lord Crampton, a tall, slender man who oozed with the aristocratic breeding of his kind, climbed out and rapped on the door of a cottage with his silver-knobbed cane. Without waiting for a response, he moved to the adjoining cottage and repeated this action, then moved on to more cottages.
As he rapped successively on a sequence of doors, the car inched forward and then disappeared into Moor Street. I left my place near the kiosk and hurried in that direction, ostensibly upon a short
patrol but in reality fascinated by this behaviour. I was in time to see His Lordship rap on a further four doors, then he climbed into his car which cruised up the street, turned right at the top and vanished from view.
But now, Moor Street was alive with people dressed in their Sunday finery. From all the houses visited by His Lordship, there emerged families in their Sunday best, and as they trooped up the street towards the parish church on the hilltop, they in turn knocked on all the doors they passed. More people emerged and in seconds, Moor Street was filled with smart people of every age, all heading towards their parish church.
Now the Rolls-Royce was cruising down Dale Street and it halted at the top where a repeat performance was commenced. After His Lordship had rapped on four doors, the villagers emerged and knocked on others, and soon the populace of Dale Street was heading towards the church. As they walked and chattered happily, the Rolls turned into Middle Street which was where I happened to be. I had now returned to my kiosk and as the splendid vehicle turned towards me, Her Ladyship waved graciously and I responded with a polite salute, hatless though I was. I wondered if my action appeared to be the submissive touching of a forelock, but it was really a courteous acknowledgement.
The magnificent vehicle now stopped in this street. His Lordship, silver-topped cane in hand, thwacked more doors before ordering the car to continue. Off it went and by the time it halted at the lych-gate at the top of Middle Street, the entire Anglican population of Crampton, men, women and children, was marching towards the church. I’ve no idea how the Methodists, Catholics and other faiths fitted into this pattern and I did wonder, for just a fleeting moment, whether I was expected to attend. But I didn’t make the gesture. I saw that His Lordship and Her Ladyship were first to enter the church, and noted that the early worshippers stood outside until the VIPs took their seats. Then everyone filed in. Only when the congregation was seated and the church full, did I hear the organist strike up the first hymn. It was precisely ten-thirty.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 25